Starched white shirts, so neatly pressed by domestic musesFeed delusions that everything is working out rightBut your ribs can't withstand the increasing weight As your heart gets heavier, and sooner or later It falls to the tips of your toes

And every day tastes like inhaling When you just lit the wrong end (that plastic burning scent) Your only friends are on the exit ramps of gridlock caravansYou try to ask how they've beenBut the metal and glass is too thick